Maggie's Got a Gun
by Beloved-Stranger
Summary: Maggie’s got a gun. A .22 hunting rifle, to be exact…and she’s just used it to blow a sizable hole in Walden Macnair’s head. How will a Muggle girl with a riflekicked shoulder survive vengeful Death Eaters?


**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything except Maggie. This is the part where you pity her.

**Summery:** Maggie's got a gun. A .22 hunting rifle, to be exact…and she's just used it to blow a sizable hole in Walden Macnair's head. How will a Muggle girl with a rifle-kicked shoulder survive vengeful Death Eaters?

**AN:** This fic is based somewhat on how I and a few of my friends would likely react if we were put upon by Death Eaters. I know about guns because my father owns several and hunts recreationally. A friend of mine knows about guns because her family had been through two of Fiji's seemingly endless political coups. I've tried to make this as realistic as possible, including a serious lack of bravado on my poor OC's part, as well as the constant urge to throw up with fear. This is me basically brushing up my writing, so feel free to tell me how bad I am.

* * *

_**Maggie's Got a Gun**_

It was getting on for eight-thirty when she registered the sound of voices on the front deck. Furtive, careful mutters, barely audible above the sound of Blindspott purring through the computer speakers.

It didn't sound like her parents, and anyway, they weren't due back from down South 'til Saturday. They were all male, as far as she could tell, but it didn't sound like Nick and his mates – too deep, too old to be a pack of rowdy fifteen-year-olds. Either way, it was too early for them to be back from Youth Group.

Maggie frowned, unconsciously tensing where she sat. What was a group of shifty men doing on her sodding veranda at eight-sodding-thirty? She thought vaguely of the rifle in the loft off her father's office, where she herself sat, using the family computer. She knew how to load the thing, and she wasn't a bad shot…

But it would come to that, would it? The portable phone lay on the computer desk before her. She knew all the numbers she was supposed to know. She was safe.

She nearly fell off her chair in shock when there was a soft sort of explosion downstairs and the front door slammed on its hinges.

"Shit!" she half yelped, half whispered, desperately gripping the desk to regain her balance.

Disgruntled growls sounded outside. Evidently, the old hardwood door had held. Next came the sound of splintering wood. Panic wrapped itself around her neck like a vengeful python.

She grabbed the portable phone and hit the 'talk' button.

Nothing.

Frowning, she tried again. Again, nothing. A suspicion took root at the back of her mind and began to blossom. She put down the phone and padded silently to the fax machine, which operated on a different line. She picked up the receiver. Silence, absolutely no dial tone. Darting back to the computer she hit a link on her current page. A loading bar appeared…and failed to fill. Instead, a notice window popped up. 'This address contains no data'.

Oh God.

They'd cut the telephone lines.

There was another resounding crash from downstairs. This time, the door did not stand up to whatever had hit it. A second crash followed the first as it was wrenched from its hinges and fell forward into the hallway. Above, Maggie froze in terror. She could hear heavy foot falls crossing the threshold…

"Well, that was fun," a deep, snarling voice said, with broad sarcasm. Laughter from out on the veranda. "Come on, then," the voice continued. "Let's see if we can't find a few…ladies…to entertain us." He – had to be male with a voice and a comment like that – laughed along with the others.

'Ladies…' she thought, her lungs seizing up painfully as the panic python tightened its hold. 'Ladies…to entertain them. Oh _God_.'

Her flitting mind fell on the rifle again. Without thinking twice, she got up and padded into the loft. The keys to the gun rack were right where they should be. When the hunting rifle was free, she reached for it and began silently looking for ammunition.

More foot falls across the fallen door. Another male voice said, "Hang on, hear that, lads?" Movement ceased as they stood listening. Maggie did the same and realized with a sick swoop of horror that she'd left her music playing. Still Blindspott. 'Plastic Shadow' was the name of the song.

_Watch who you curse..._

_Watch who you curse_

_Cause in reverse_

_It bleeds, it hurts_

_Watch who you curse..._

_And be selective_

_Of the people you hate_

_Cause plastic shadows retaliate_

Plastic shadows retaliate…swallowing her fear, she began to load the rifle, being as quiet as possible, thinking, 'This is the part where the heroine whispers _that's right, I'm a plastic shadow, and you'd better watch out boys, cause I'm sure as hell going to retaliate_…

'…this is also the part where Maggie Callahan is sick all over the carpet.'

She crept into the stairwell, rifle tucked to her shoulder – and positioned herself a third of the way down. She was still in the shadows, unseen, but she could see them perfectly.

They were wearing cloaks. And masks. And they were holding strange twigs in their hands. 'Oh Christ,' she thought. 'It's a sodding faction of the sodding Klu Klux Klan.' Several seconds later she settled the rifle a little more comfortably in her arms and took aim. 'You're all doomed.'

Looking down the sight, she slowly breathed out, and focused on the head of the biggest one. Gently, she squeezed the trigger. There was a snap (because .22 rifles are comparatively polite when it comes to announcing themselves), and an explosion of red.

**--M--**

The Death Eater's looked around wildly at the sound of a muted explosion, and were promptly covered in gore for their troubles.

Walden Macnair's head had just exploded.

**--M--**

Maggie swore quaveringly under her breath and winced. .22's are popular because they don't make much noise, don't need constant reloading and don't recoil very violently, but they do recoil. For Maggie's father and brothers, this wasn't such a big deal, but then, they were bigger and stronger than Maggie, and went shooting on a semi-regular basis. They were used to the recoil, and Maggie wasn't. Thus, it hurt.

This made her situation exponentially worse. She was injured and suffering from a home invasion.

And she'd just killed a man in cold blood. Speaking of blood, there was now quite a bit of it all over her family's hallway. Once again, she desperately resisted the urgent need to empty her stomach.

Below her, the invaders where yelling and trying to figure out what the bloody hell was going on. Evidently, they hadn't had much experience with firearms, because they hadn't figured out they were being shot at.

But they would. They would search the house for a reason, and they would find Maggie. There was only one thing to do.

They had to be stopped from searching. You can't search a house if you can't move. You can't move if you can't walk.

Maggie didn't want to kill anyone else if she could help it. Shivering, she resettled the rifle and braced herself. Then she looked down the scope, found the next biggest guy, and aimed for his knees.

Sighing out, she once again pulled the trigger.


End file.
